


Bad Memories

by KingsNeverDie100



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Actual realtionship moving waay too fast, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, I'm too impatient for slow burn, Illya is a little shy, KGB sucks, M/M, Memories, Napoleon Loves Illya, Pre-Relationship, Tattoos, and insecure, slight PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 17:09:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14117016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingsNeverDie100/pseuds/KingsNeverDie100
Summary: Illya has been hiding his body from Napoleon, even as the two men have been growing closer to each other. Why? Because his skin is covered in bad memories that he would rather keep to himself.When Napoleon walks in him before he has a chance to cover up, the secret comes out in the open. How will Napoleon react to see what he’s been hiding all this time?It’s certainly not the way Illya thought he would react.





	Bad Memories

**Author's Note:**

> I've been told that my description of gulags and Russian prison tattoos are slightly faulty, but you know what? I don't care. It's fanfiction, these characters don't actually exist, and I don't claim to be an expert on Russian prison systems. I can do what I want, and it was fun to write. 
> 
> That being said, I hope you like it :)

Napoleon had never seen Illya in any state of undress before. The closest he’d come to seeing his bare skin was when he had his sleeves rolled up after a long day, when they were sharing a drink and being half inclined on the sofa in a less than dignified position for two international top spies, but there was no one there to watch them, so they made the most of their privacy and relaxed.

 

It didn’t bother him that he’d never seen Illya shirtless before.

 

No, wait, that’s a big fat lie. It bothered the hell out of him. Peril was undeniably handsome, and Napoleon would have loved to feast his eyes on what lay beneath those very Soviet fashioned clothes. Not that Illya wasn’t nice to look at with his clothes on. He was, very much so, it’s just…

 

They had been playing this game of back and forth for a while now. They’d flirt with each other, sometimes teasingly and playfully, sometimes very seriously with nothing to hide. Sometimes Illya would be all in, and sometimes he would pull away. Napoleon figured it was because of cultural differences. Illya was born and bred in the Soviet Union, where he would most likely be sent to the gulag or even executed for the behavior he displayed with Napoleon when they were alone, so Napoleon made sure to always be patient with his Russian friend, and back off when it seemed to become more than he was comfortable with. However, as for how serious he was, Napoleon was all in every time.

 

He wanted Illya, and he made sure it was no secret, even when the flirting was only at a playful level.

 

Whether they were being playful or serious, Napoleon had taken his shirt off a few times in front of Illya. It was always accompanied by weak excuses, like he had a small scratch on his hand, so he had to take off the whole thing unless he wanted blood on it, or they had been caught by rain, and he had to take it off because it was damp, even if it was just a few drops. He loved the way Illya would blush and try not to look, and fail not to look. The egocentric side of him also loved to show off a little bit. He was proud of his body, and he wanted Illya to feel free to enjoy it as much as he did.

 

Illya, however, never returned the favour.

 

Napoleon would take his shirt off, because there was a teeny tiny bit of sauce on it after dinner, and Illya would look at him and blush, and Napoleon would think “ _This is it. It’s finally happening_ ”. Whether _it_ was just Illya also taking his shirt off, or whatever they were doing leading to sex, he wasn't sure, but he didn’t really care. He just wanted them to get past the stage of flirting and glances and dreamy sighs (mostly from Napoleon). He wanted them to be more than they were, but it never happened.

 

As soon as his shirt came off, he would prance around a bit, Illya would look, and then the Russian would mumble an excuse and leave the room. Napoleon never got the feeling that Illya wanted him to stop taking his clothes of in front of him, but maybe he was too shy to do anything as a reaction to it?

 

Now, however, everything was about to change, and Napoleon would get an answer to his question of why Peril refused to flirt with him by returning his incredibly unsubtle strip tease.

 

Napoleon got the key to Illya’s apartment month ago, and Illya got his. Not that he needed the key, since he could easily pick the lock, but it was more polite that way, and Mrs Solo took pride in raising a polite son.

 

With an armful of groceries he opened the door with his free hand, and let himself into the apartment.

 

“Peril, it’s me. Are you in here?” he called out. He could vaguely hear the sound of running water, and knew that Illya couldn’t hear him while he was in the shower. Oh well, he’d be out soon and notice Napoleon was here. It wasn’t unusual for them to invade each others spaces.

 

He headed to the kitchen and disposed of his purchases on the counter. He had been in the mood to cook something for his partner, knowing Illya wasn’t much of a cook himself, and Napoleon enjoyed spoiling his Red Peril, even if he wouldn’t outright calling it that, because that would be too much of a blow to Illya’s pride.

 

Napoleon donned the apron he kept in Illya’s apartment and began to cook. He truly loved the whole process of cooking; going from having a bunch of different ingredients, to putting them together in a very precise combination, and through that making a perfect creation. The best part was when the food was done, when he got to see someone enjoy what he’d made. Especially if that person was someone he loved, someone who he cared about making happy.

 

He could thank his mother for his love of food and cooking. Angéline Solo, formerly Angéline Riviere, was a fantastic cook, and had taken her culinary skills with her from France when she moved to the States to marry Napoleon’s American father. Angéline was delighted when her son had shown as much interest in cooking as she had, and quickly taught him everything that she knew. Napoleon’s father on the other hand was not so fond of his son finding passion on the kitchen, but that’s a less happy story for another time.

 

Napoleon was just putting the finishing touch on their dinner when he noticed that he could no longer hear the sound of running water. He was just about to call out to Illya when he heard light footsteps behind him.

 

“I was just wondering when you’d be done. I hope you’re hungry. I think you’ll like…” He turned around and lost the ability to speak from what he saw.

 

Illya was standing in front of him in the doorway to the kitchen. He looked slightly shellshocked, probably from not expecting to find Napoleon in his kitchen. Otherwise he might have covered up before Napoleon had a chance to see him, but that would mean Napoleon would have been deprived of this glorious sight.

 

Illya was covered in tattoos. His whole chest, and probably his back too. His upper arms and some of his neck, which explained those turtlenecks he was so fond of. His lower arms were bare, but his legs, what Napoleon could see that wasn’t covered by the towel around his hips, was inked as well.

 

He was absolutely gorgeous. Napoleon couldn’t look away.

 

“Cowboy,” Illya swallowed. “I didn’t- What are you doing here?” He sounded breathless and nervous, but not for the reasons Napoleon wanted him to be.

 

“I just felt like making you some dinner. I didn’t think I’d see…” _This_. “Is this why you’ve been pulling away? Did you think I wouldn’t like the way you look?” There was no purpose in even pretending they wouldn’t have been naked together countless times by now if Illya hadn’t shied away. They both knew it.

 

Illya clutched the towel around his shoulders he’d used to dry his hair, as if pulling it would make it bigger and give him more cover, but it was useless.

 

“I, uhm, I was…” Napoleon didn’t think he’d ever heard Illya stutter like that, like he was actually afraid of what Napoleon might say. He didn’t like it one bit. He wanted Illya to be honest with him and comfortable around him.

 

He turned off the stove, took off his apron, and slowly walked closer to the Russian giant, so as not to spook him. He assumed that Illya while frightened didn’t have to be treated much different than Illya while angry. He just had to make sure to stay calm and try to get Illya to focus on him, on here and now, and get his breathing back under control. Illya’s hands were shaking a little bit, but Napoleon figured it would be fine as long as he didn’t make any sudden movements.

 

“Peril, look at me,” he began softly. Illya had until now looked over his shoulder into the wall, but now he reluctantly met Napoleon’s eyes. “You’re safe, no one is going to hurt you. Least of all I. Just breath and tell me what’s wrong, in your own time.” Patience was the key here. Patience and understanding.

 

Illya kept his amazingly blue eyes on Napoleon, and miraculously did as he was told. He took a few deep breaths, shaky at first, but getting steadier.

 

“Cowboy,” his voice was smaller than Napoleon was used to hearing it. It worried him. “You were not supposed to see.”

 

“See your tattoos? Why not?” He wanted to shower Peril with compliments, he was so beautiful, but it was probably better to let him explain himself first.

 

Illya too another breath. His hands had now stopped shaking, but were instead curled into fists. Napoleon wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.

 

“Tattoos are… bad memories. I did not want you to be part of that, to see bad side of me,” Illya explained vaguely.

 

Napoleon couldn’t help but to smile. “Peril, I think I saw a bad side of you when you almost choked me in that public bathroom in Berlin, and the night before that when you almost stopped my car with your bare hands,” even if, at the time, that had been the sexiest thing Napoleon had ever seen. “The point is, I already knew there was a bad side to you, even if that can barely count as being bad. I’d say that counts more as being a good agent. Will you tell me why your tattoos are bad?”

 

Illya looked down again. Napoleon was standing close to him now, close enough to touch, but he held back. He wanted to trace the ink on his skin, preferably with his tongue. The stars on his clavicles and the cross in the middle of his chest. The Madonna and her child covering his right side.

 

“They are from bad time of my life.”

 

Napoleon waited for him to continue. Illya took a minute before he spoke again.

 

“In KGB, they sometimes… In training they send you away to prison or gulag, or both. Sometimes to go undercover, to make friends and contacts with criminals and people who could be threat to government. Sometimes to make agents tougher, learn to think like criminal, learn to survive. Sometimes is punishment. Many do not come back.”

 

Napoleon couldn’t even imagine what that was like. To be sent to a place that he’d heard could be likened to Hell, to toughen up or die in the process. It was made worse by the fact that it was the people still in training, the youngsters, who were being sent away.

 

“And you were sent to one of these places?”

 

“First prison, then gulag, then prison again. Is where these come from,” he looked down at his body. “They all mean something in there.”

 

Napoleon could now feel his own hands shaking, and his own breath getting laboured from anger and rage. No doubt a reaction he’d picked up from Illya. You know what they say about adopting the characteristics of the people close to you.

 

Illya must have misread his reaction, because he took a step back and brought the towel from his shoulders down and held it in front of his stomach, covering the three-masted ship with white sails Napoleon had seen there.

 

“I will put on some clothes. You can go if you want.”

 

“No, wait,” Napoleon reached out and gripped his hand before he could slip from the room. “Illya, I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide anything from me. This is a part of you, part of what made you who you are. If you’re comfortable talking about it, I just want you to know that I would love to listen. Not to pity you. Just because sometimes you have to talk about things to make the bad memories go away.”

 

Napoleon wasn’t really one to talk. He usually suppress bad memories, never to be spoken about again. Like the nightmares he sometimes suffered, both from the torture given to him by Rudi and his electric chair, and from the things he’d had to do while in the service, both the army and CIA. But he wanted Illya to be okay, to be healthy in every way, and that meant mentally as well, which he wouldn’t be while he carried these bad memories that affected him enough to hide his body from Napoleon, who wanted nothing more than to love every bit of him.

 

Illya still looked reluctant to be in the position he was in, but he held Napoleon’s hand in a vice grip.

 

Slowly, to keep them both calm, Napoleon led them to Illya’s bedroom. It was pretty dark, only the light on the bedside table was on, but that was all the light they needed. Perhaps this would be easier for Illya if Napoleon could only see parts of him, the rest of him cloaked in shadow. He sat them down on the bed, still holding their hands tightly together. Illya had dropped the towel in his other hand, and the one remaining tied around him had begun to slip a little bit. Napoleon could now see a pair of eyes tattooed low on his stomach, just above the edge of the towel.

 

Napoleon remained silent, letting Illya take everything at the pace he wanted to.

 

“I am not really afraid of other people seeing them,” Illya explained, his thumb caressing the back of Napoleon’s hand. “It just… They all mean something,” he repeated. “If people see, and know what they mean… They will know what I have done. I see them and am reminded. I am ashamed. I did not want you to see and know, and regret being close to me.”

 

“Illya,” he almost cried. “I would never regret anything we do. You are beautiful inside and out, all of you. I know you don’t believe me, but that’s how I feel. You are perfect to me, and these tattoos don’t change damn a thing.”

 

Illya was almost crying too now, but was holding it in much better than Napoleon. He assumed it was because of the hellish training Illya went through to get rid of all traces of emotions. Really, what kind of organization sends their operatives to prison to become better agents?!

 

“You really want to know?” Illya asked timidly in his deep rumbling voice, and clarified, “Know what they mean?”

 

Napoleon nodded. “I want to know what you’re willing to tell me. It doesn’t have to be everything, or anything at all. Just know that you _can_ , if you want to. Because no matter what they mean, it won’t change the way I feel about you.”

 

Still slowly and softly, not to spook him, Napoleon leaned forward until he could feel Illya’s breath on his mouth. Illya’s breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away, so Napoleon leaned in a little bit further. Their lips met in the softest of touches, and it was like everything right with the world.

 

Almost like a religious experience, Napoleon saw a light behind his eyes. When he pulled away and looked at Illya, the other man might as well have had a halo around his head, Napoleon felt so affected by the moment.

 

“I love you, Illya.”

 

Napoleon couldn’t have stopped the words if he wanted to. Not that he wanted to. He wanted to shout them from the rooftops.

 

Illya smiled for the first time that night, disbelieving and beautiful. “I love you too, Napoleon.”

 

They moved to lay back on the bed side by side. Illya abandoned the towel and lied there in all his glory for Napoleon to see. Napoleon was still fully dressed, but it didn’t feel awkward. There was nothing sexual about the moment. The air was filled with a warmth that witness of how this would bring them closer together.

 

Napoleon started on Illya’s chest, moving his thumb over the cross right in the middle. At first he thought it meant Peril was more religious than he’d thought, but Illya explained.

 

“Sign of a thief. I was not one, but I had to fit in.” He moved on and pointed to ship on his stomach. “Means I have escaped prison before, or plan to.” Then the Madonna and her child taking up his entire right side. “This can have many different meanings. For me, it was reminder of my mother.”

 

Napoleon briefly wondered if Mrs Kuryakin knew of the ways her son had been marked, if she knew what he’d had to endure during his training.

 

Illya pointed to a rose ensnared in barbed wire on the inside of his left arm. “Means I turned eighteen in prison.” Napoleon flinched. He couldn’t even imagine Illya at such a young age behind bars.

 

He traced the stars just below Illya’s clavicles, and noticed a pair of matching ones on his knees. “What about these?”

 

Illya took his hands and traced the stars with him. “On shoulders they stand for authority in prison, like general among criminals. On my knees means I never kneel to anyone.”

 

“What did you do to become an authority in there? If you want to tell me,” Napoleon assured him.

 

His pep-talk from earlier must have worked, because Illya answered without much hesitation. He gestured to a two-part tattoo above the stars. “This.” It was a knife, with the illusion of it going through his neck. The handle rested on one shoulder, and the blade on the other. Three drops on blood fell from the blade.

 

“It means I killed in prison, and could- no, _would_ do it again.”

 

There was no judgement coming from Napoleon. He’d meant it when he said that nothing Illya told him now would change the way he felt.

 

Illya kept explaining the meaning of his tattoos. A dancing skeleton on one shin and a lighthouse on the other. A grim reaper holding a scythe and a lit candle in one thigh, and snarling bear on the other. The hammer and sickle of the communist symbol on his right upper arm. A fanged skull and the small head of a grinning devil on the back on either of his shoulders. A crown on his neck, just at the right height to be covered by a turtleneck or a shirt with a slightly higher than normal collar. On his left side, almost morbidly matching the Madonna in an ironic way, was a woman entwined with a snake. The Kreml with its elaborate domes covered almost all of his back. A particularly grim one was written under his right clavicle star: _Kill the non-Russians_.

 

Those were just some of many. There were more all over him, except for his lower arms, hands, and face, which he had left bare to avoid suspicion when he wasn’t imprisoned.

 

Napoleon thought all of them were beautiful, even if the meanings of them were less than desirable, and Illya had gotten them because of necessity, and not because he actually wanted them.

 

He placed kissed on all of them, to show how much he cared for them, cared for Illya. He got to the eyes low on his stomach.

 

“What about these?”

 

Illya swallowed and remained silent. Napoleon didn’t push him. He’d also chosen not to explain the woman with the snake.

 

He was about to move on to the next one, when Illya changed his mind and spoke.

 

“Eyes mean I am homosexual.”

 

Napoleon looked up from his position crouched over Illya, but the Russian was looking away, like he had in the kitchen earlier. He touched the painted eyes again. He wasn’t surprised at Illya’s confession. He could only think how unpleasant it must have been to have such a tattoo in the gulag. He briefly worried that the tattoo had been forcefully put there, but remembered Illya saying that he had chosen all the motives himself, which must have included that one. It also must have included the woman and the snake, which Illya now explained.

 

“It means I am passive in sexual acts. I am… there for the taking.”

 

Napoleon saw red.

 

He wanted to break into whatever facility Illya had been kept in and kill everyone who’d ever touched him. He wanted to kill Oleg for allowing this to happen. Hell, give him a chance to topple the whole damn KGB, for selfish and vengeful reasons and not patriotic ones like Sanders would wants him to.

 

“And, were you…” He couldn’t even finish the question, the words tasted so foul in his mouth. _Were you forced? Did they make you?_

 

Illya shrugged and answered quietly. “It was my part to play. First time behind bars. Was supposed to get close to gang leader, no matter what.”

 

He sounded so passive about the whole thing, like the people he worked for hadn’t let dirty criminals use him in the worst possible way, and then get marked with a reminder of it that would last for the rest of his life.

 

Napoleon could now feel a tear of anger rolling down his cheek. He surged up and lied on top of Illya, kissing him harder than he had before, as if trying to erase the bad memories with new better ones.

 

“I’m sorry this happened to you,” he said. Words he was sure no one had said to Illya before. “I’m sorry for what they did to you, and I’m sorry for what you had to do. I’m sorry you have to be reminded of it when you look in the mirror, and I’m sorry you didn’t feel safe enough to tell me.” The last one was the one he felt worst about.

 

Illya hugged him tightly and returned the kiss. “Is okay, Cowboy. Was not your fault.”

 

“I know, but I still don’t like the thought of you going through all that. From now on, I never want you to go through that kind of pain again. From now on, I’m going to watch out for you. I’m going to have your back, and take care of you, and love you the way you deserve to be loved,” he vowed. He was shaking a bit. He’d never made such a commitment as the one he was making to Illya at this moment. It felt good. Like coming home.

 

Illya raked a hand through Napoleon’s hair. His fingers released the curls that had been held back by hair product. His eyes were full of warmth and love.

 

“Cowboy, you are my everything. I swear all the same things to you.”

 

They fell asleep like that. Illya was still naked and Napoleon was still fully dressed. The food he’d left on the stove was cold by then, but could be reheated in the morning. The most important thing was that Illya had finally opened up to him, and let him in to share his past. Napoleon felt closer to him than ever. He also felt more in love than ever, and he made another vow right then and there: to show Illya everyday how much he loved him, and never let him doubt it. Illya was the most important thing in the world to him, and he was never letting him go. Not for anything.

 

He snuggled in closer to Illya’s warm body, unconsciously tracing one of the stars on his chest. His love was a walking work of art, and Napoleon would treat him as such. With reverence, with protectiveness, and most of all, with unconditional love, for as long as they both lived, through thick and thin, for better or for worse, till death did them part.

  
“ _I do_ ,” he whispered in his sleep, and dreamed of getting a tattoo himself. Perhaps a small circle around his left ring finger. He smiled into Illya’s neck. Yes, that would be perfect. If he asked nicely, maybe Illya would even agree to matching ones.


End file.
